Negotiations
by MorriganFearn
Summary: Ghent 1791 - Francis Bonnefoy is about to get his hands on documents that will embarrass the British. Josef Peeters has tasked himself with guarding them, and allowing them into French hands would put his sister's reputation at risk. Human AU. Fra/Neth


I drew a gift pic of Revolutionary!France and 1791!Netherlands for champagnesly on lj (who completely indulges my love of this pairing. If you're interested, look up "The Bubble Lounge" and follow along with the shenanigans of her France and Netherlands. Much better than my hesitant offering). The drawing obviously needed a story to back it up, so I tried my hand at one. Yay, tiny history fic. Not so yay awkward writing of smut. I'm a complete plum with smut. But a writer should be prepared to write everything, even romance, and the physical side of romance.

Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Negotiations<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Ghent, 1791<strong>  
>Francis Bonnefoy stilled as soon as the sharp point pressed into his stomach, and an unfortunately strong hand gripped the wrist not engaged in delicately opening the letter before him. His dark lantern suddenly seemed such a useless object. Francis always preferred knowing to guessing as to who was manhandling him. However, there were not that many people staying in Madamoiselle Peeters home this weekend who would know their way around in the nocturnal hours without the use of a candle or lantern. For example, the owner of this piece of correspondence, Captain Kirkland, would not have been able to find the twisting hallways between the guest rooms on the first floor, and the ground floor library, hidden as it was behind a staircase by some very clever Flemish architect, without much stumbling and cursing.<p>

Captain Kirkland, too, would not have had the raw strength to smoothly pull Francis by the captured wrist, and a hint of calculated prodding, to a broad chest. Roughly, probably, Arthur could have done so, the naval title was well earned in the Captain's case, but Francis' extra inches meant that physically he had enough advantage to struggle against the Englishman. So, of the male weekend guests, this man was taller than Francis, and stronger than him. That immediately knocked out the three Germans, the Beilschmidts being shorter than he was, and Monsieur Edelstein was more used to wrestling with the piano keys, courtly dances, and the occasional fractious wife than someone used to a fight.

So, his captor might be the sour Swede, but as far as Francis was aware, the Swede had never even been to the Austrian Netherlands before, and certainly had never visited this house, which demonstrated a certain cunning and secretness of ancestral mind. Besides, when Francis had slipped from his room, the Swede had been engaged in conversation with his sweet eyed manservant. They would be up until all hours, but safely absorbed in the intricacies of their own lives.

"Does your sister know that you accost her guests like this, Monsieur Peeters?" Francis inquired, keeping his eyes straight on the small line of light flooding from the hatch in his dark lantern.

A small intake of breath told him that he had guessed rightly. "I do when I believe them to be sneak thieves," French was obviously not Brother Peeters favored tongue, and Francis despaired slightly, hoping that he would not have to try his Flemish against this man.

Francis tried to think where to go from here. The hand on his jacket sleeve kept his wrist well away from any weapon that he might have secreted about his person-not that Francis had. Even a lady's firearm was suspicious on a gentleman once he had taken the happily incriminating letters from their former abode. "Well, I must say I am impressed. Most people would go for the throat to stop a man, but you chose the more lingering death. As I like my tripes where they are, and would rather not ruin some very nice tailoring, perhaps we could discuss this?"

"Perhaps," if even a concession to civilized terms was hard to wring from the elder Peeters, Francis had to wonder if he would be able to talk his way free. What had his hostess said at dinner? Her brother was in shipping of some kind. Just back from Ceylon. Oh dear. Probably another captain. However, from a quick brief of dinner table conversation, he and Arthur had not been on the same side of any single discussion all evening.

"With a lack of sharp negotiation tools?"

A snort, and Francis caught a whiff of tobacco. Hmm. That might explain what had happened. A gentleman enjoying the summer night air through an open window. Taking a last pleasurable puff from his pipe, even as he readied himself for bed, only to hear someone moving around in library, where his sister kept all of her papers. He would probably grab the nearest weapon to hand, and then pad through the twists and turns of his family home to surprise the lurking Francis. "No, I think that we will continue using the sharp negotiation tools, Citoyen Bonnefoy."

"My dear," Francis smiled, lying through his teeth, keeping his view on the lantern, "despite my less than fashionable trousers, I assure you, I am no republican radical. I came to this idyllic place to escape the, shall we say, political tumult of Paris at this point. Your sister's invitation was timely, and convenient."

"And yet you sneak into her private study to look for the letters she promised her Anglo guest she would keep safe? You even broke the seals," Peeters replied dryly, and Francis turned his head just slightly to look at the double written parchment as though it had not crossed his mind that the open letter in his hand had been sealed against tampering. "Do tell me what a righteous monarchist could care for the doings of the English Navy."

Francis grinned at the sarcasm. So the man believed he knew all about Francis' game. How interesting, especially since Francis knew so little about him. "Looking for salvation for his family, perhaps? I will put these back where they belong, and we will say no more about it."

The fingers tightened on Francis' sleeve. "Why don't you tell me what you read of Captain Kirkland's secrets?"

Francis' eyes shifted to look at his accuser. Monsieur Peeters' eyes glittered in the bare light, flat and cold. He was not gazing at Francis, but along his arm, towards the pale flash of the rag paper Arthur had used. How intriguing. Francis already knew the contents of the letter-he needed the proof of its existence, not the rumor. Mademoiselle Peeters, clever and masterfully polite as she was, could be depended upon to side with a fleeing monarchist. But her brother?

"I won't ask you to remove the knife, but I would dearly love to know where you were last year," Francis purred, the tone of his voice so feline and pleased with itself that it would have taken a more fool hardy person than Monsieur Peeters not to pause. "I think I can plot the course of your travels, and Ceylon is not on the map in my head. For example, have you ever been to Breda?"

The metal point pressed deeper, Francis imagined that he could feel the tip piercing the layers of cloth. "It is near the border, Citoyen, but to go further I need confirmation of your intent."

Again the republican title, and in that form of address Francis imagined he caught a hint of longing. Of course, it was probably his romantic inclinations infecting the tone with the desire for equality. The Peeters were a good family. Trade flowed, and they were rich on it, if lacking in the respect of a noble name and lineage. In France, of course, capability was prized above blood, and for one year, the experiment had been tried here, too.

Francis chuckled, meeting the searching gaze in the dim room. "My intent it to return to Paris. Despite the tumult, it is my home."

"If you were truly a monarchist, such sentimentality might be your imprisonment."

"Or death," Francis agreed equitably. "The revolution does not run the smoothest course, to be sure. Now, monsieur, may I speculate on your travels in 1790, or are we to stand here until the good Captain comes down to retrieve his letters?"

The digging point lessened ever so slightly. "Go on."

"I would say that early in the year you visited Breda in the Lowlands, and then returned to your own home by way of Turnhout in October, arriving here in November? And then it became politically expedient to head for other climes, your sister covering most expertly by telling her guests that your travels take you to the wild East Indies and Celyon, a voyage to and fro of some months, I believe."

"Wherever my travels took me, I managed to land right here in my sister's library as a French provocateur inspects the private belongings of one of her guests," Monsieur Peeters hissed in Francis' ear, not admitting anything more than Francis would.

Francis cleared his throat, aware of the tension in the fingers on his wrist. "Well, he had to find some place to hide this after I searched his room three nights ago without waking him."

"What is in those letters that could be so important for you to risk that?"

Francis considered the answer briefly. "You wish to know?"

The flat eyes darted to the letters at the long end of Francis' arm once again, looking almost nervous. "You risk a lot, including the continuing friendship of Madamoiselle Peeters, for two slips of paper. I wish to know what will be ruining her reputation."

_Besides having a revolutionary-minded elder brother in firmly held Hapsburg lands. I wonder if that is why this is his sister's library, and not his_, Francis put aside the question for a later date. "These are the instructions Sir Richard Howe about what to do when France proves hostile to English and Austrian suggestion about what to do with our royalty."

Monsieur Peeters' hand gripped Francis' wrist more tightly for a moment. Francis allows himself a smile of smug satisfaction. "Tell me, Monsieur, is the reason that you have not taken the opportunity to look for these yourself because you respect the kinds of guests that your sister invites, or because you do not wish to be the cause of familial disgrace? You know as well as I what the instructions are."

"Blockading and occupying the Seventeen Provinces, to reinforce the armies moving into France from the West," Peeters slowly murmured.

Francis nodded. "The charming elder Beilschmidt was saying it at the table, wasn't he? There will be war. One way or another, there is always war. Now, I am not of such a bloodthirsty infantile disposition, but should the old monarchies attempt to correct the new constitution of my land, I do imagine that they will have to fail with blood as well as words. Just think how damaging it will be to know that the great English ally is already planning to correct a few other constitutions as well."

The point of the knife moved, sliding into the darkness, but Peeters did not let go of Francis' wrist. "And you propose snatching this proof of duplicity?"

"And publishing it," Francis replied, bowing. "Now, if you would let this innocent citizen free?"

The bookshelves creaked as though listening with the same tension that was running through Francis in the long wait for Peeters' answer. The fingers around his wrist stiffened momentarily. Then relaxed, thumb lingering against Francis' pulse. What was going through that inscrutable mind?

"I cannot allow my sister's name to be tarnished," Monsieur Peeters commented at last. "You need the evidence of Britain's duplicity. The Captain has come into this room regularly after breakfast for the last three days."

"Which is how I discovered the true location of his little note in the first place," Francis purred. "I do adore it when a man is too paranoid to trust in his own contingency plans."

In the shadows, Francis was certain that his captor had glared at him for disrupting his verbal thought process. However, Peeters continued as though nothing was amiss. "Of course. Therefore, I have until after breakfast to effect a forgery of this letter so that to outward appearances nothing has been tampered with, do I not?"

Francis' heart soared, his mind rushing to calculate the benefits. Delicious. Captain Kirkland would leave, thinking his copy of the note was genuine. Oh, the humiliation he would face when it was revealed that not only were his orders false, but the real orders were now cried across the civilized world through the bane of the presses. It was only too unfortunate that the captain was a simple naval brute. Such a coup would ruin the stubborn man's career in the diplomatic service.

However, such a deception relied on untested talents. Francis calmed himself with a low smirk full of cynical surety. "You have such ability?"

"I would need an hour to discover if this was possible with the resources I have in the house," Peeters replied, nonchalantly. "With your permission, Citoyen?"

Francis almost wished that he had a fan to snap on the sharp nose for the mockery hovering on the title. What a quixotic mix of potential desires and Perhaps his revolutionary tendencies did not speak so much for a desire for equality, as much as a desire for liberty. The Peeters fortune spent considerable time moving through the Hapsburg coffers, after all. "I am willing to essay it, sir. One hour. By the chiming of the clock, if you will?"

The hand left his wrist, and Monsieur Peeters reached around to grab the correspondence. Francis moved it quickly to above his head, giving Monsieur Peeters a grin more likely found on a denizen of the deep following a blood trail. "Ah. We will do this together. I have no intention of allowing my prize out of my sight."

Straightening, Monsieur Peeters disappeared into the shadows for a moment. It was quite impressive, Francis thought, knowing that the tall gentleman had to be standing less than a foot away, and being unable to place him thanks to his stillness. Then he moved again, and Franics could breathe.

"All right. Put out that lantern, and follow me."

Francis felt a tiny bubble of victory. Peeters' coming upon him in the library had placed Francis at a decided disadvantage, but now control of the situation had returned. The order to leave no light was clearly a trick to give Monsieur Peeters the appearance of leading the lost Frenchman. Francis might even play along and stumble most theatrically.

He took the cue and crossed to the table, lifting the hatch of his lantern enough to blow out the light. Then, mindful of the oil, he began to follow Peeters, listening more for his steps than relying on the flutter of white visible from his shirt. The looming shadows of the house concealed their day carved wood, the impressive painting collection, and unfortunately, the secrets of decorative tables for the vases, the spindly chairs, and all the sort of useless displays of wealth that Francis had happily put to the torch only a few years prior in his nation's capital. He felt particularly vindictive when rounding a corner by the back staircase on the second landing, a table bit vengefully into his thigh.

To the rustle and sloshing of water that indicated an unhappy vase of flowers, Peeters just chuckled slightly, a low rumble that made Francis wish navigating the darkness of some unknown merchant's storehouse upon the man. A door creaked open, and with the soft crack of a fire starter, orange candle light finally gave Francis something to navigate by. Slipping around the door and closing it, he glared at his host, still rubbing the potential bruise to his thigh. More likely it was his ego that was suffering, but, as he put his own lantern on the small desk in this room, he wanted to dramatically make a point.

"Was it really necessary to come this way without a single light? I might be forever maimed in the shins."

Monsieur Peeters had already turned his attention to the shelves and drawers above the desk. "My sister is used to my taking visitors to my room late at night. As long as I am discrete, and Manon does not have to clean wax or oil from the rugs and floor in the morning, my sister will tell anyone that her house was entirely undisturbed."

Ah. Francis wondered what to make of this information. Or misinformation. The very mildness of the tone suggested Monsiuer Peeters was daring Francis to read as much into the comment as he liked. How strange. Francis had barely any indication of what kind of man he had temporarily allied with tonight, and he would likely never have to deal with him again. Why be so vexing as to imply that other clandestine meetings took place here, then?

Francis considered tawdry affairs with servants, but that did not seem to fit particularly well with what he had observed so far. A servant belonging to the house was under the protection of his sister, and Monsieur Peeters seemed to value her good opinion, or at least goodwill far too highly to risk it in such a way. So, clandestine meetings of radicals, then? Now was that piece of information—

"At some point you will have to give me the letter, or we will never know if a forgery can be attempted," Peeters commented dryly, making Francis jump slightly, as he realized the man had ghosted around behind him one again. How light on his feet for someone built on such a scale. But then again, he seemed more concerned with subtlety, rather than impact.

Smiling ironically to prove that he had expected the reappearance of his host, Francis place the letter carefully by the candle. Perhaps that put the man out, who had obviously had expected to be handed the sheets of paper. Indeed, his smile grew a little wider as Peeters' annoyed sigh touched the edge of his ear.

"You are infuriating, Citoyen Bonnefoy. I hope that you know this."

"It has been mentioned before," Francis replied, following as Peeters walked back to the front of the desk. He watched as the man hunched over the pages, and several other sheaves that he had laid near by.

"Hmm. This wax on the seals might be darker than what I have. But," large hands picked up the offending original, stroking along the folded edges, "I do have similar paper. Probably from the same supplier."

Francis watched in fascination, as a lower drawer on the desk was opened, and Peeters' other hand disappeared into the darkness, only to return bearing three different stubs of ceiling wax appearing only dull black. In better light, perhaps, they would be red. Laying these by the spare sheets of paper, Peeters set his hands to running over the letter that he proposed to forge. Francis watched skeptically, as the orders were carefully refolded, and the seal became the object of the most intense scrutiny.

Finally, Peeters sat back, scowling. "The candle sticks are in a wooden box on the dresser," he said at last, motioning vaguely with his hand. "Get me two more and light them, would you? This isn't one of the easiest seals to copy and I need to see what I'm doing."

Francis ignored the fact that he was being ordered about like a servant rather pointedly. A little more light was little enough to ask for. "You can copy from the broken wax so easily?"

"It would be nice to have a whole piece to work with of course. If this is what is given, it is what I have. I would prefer a day, some etching acid, and a blank stamp to be sure. However, all that is necessary is for Arthur Kirkland to believe that he has the genuine article. I can mimic the general shape and feel of the seal by the end of the night."

"Fascinating."

As Francis lit the second taper from the original candle leaning over Peeter's broad back, he found arresting eyes seeking out his face. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

Raising a critical eyebrow Francis moved just enough to put his empty hand on the back of Peeters' chair. "What on earth do you mean?"

The cast of Peeters' hard face suggested that Francis was playing him for the fool, and Peeters knew it. "Talk as though you're about to swallow the world. I find myself nervous in the presence of such greed."

"Do you?" Francis suspected that Peeters' sense of humor was dry and darkly English, for the most part. "It is good for you that I calculate my remarks towards a different sin, then."

"Oh?" Peeters turned away, fishing in a different drawer for something new, and Francis watched with interest as silver tools began to appear. They seemed to be the delicately savage instruments of a barber, but the final touch came as Peeters pulled out a pen, and an ink well. "Any message in particular that you wish to send to the good captain?"

"Ooh, you are cruel, Monsieur," Francis laughed with throaty approbation. "Need we send a message?"

"You can feel the ridges of the pen strokes, and where the ink has dried through the paper," Peeters replied, although Francis was certain that he saw a smirk tugging at that severe mouth. Provoking. "All I am attempting is an outward facsimile, but one should fill the page of the outermost sheet. We know so much by touch, without realizing that we notice it at all. I might as well write something interesting, if I am going to be writing something. It would only be a superficial stop gap to give him the illusion that he can trust to my sister's discretion. Surely you have something that you desire Captain Kirkland to know."

Peeters pushed open the original note, studying the English words, as Francis gleefully composed. "Oh, many things. Date it five days ago. Hmm. 'My charming,' no, 'My favorite English dog, I am relieved to discover that you managed to escape execution as an agent working against French interests. I do hope that our last little run-in taught you about the necessity of showing your true colors, and wearing your uniform—or at least that no good wordsmith would have hands so roughened by sea water.' Mmm. I suppose that it would be ungentlemanly to mention that I took very good care of the little lady he was forced to abandon amid the excitement caused by the gendarmerie."

Peeters snorted, his hand moving economically between inkwell and fresh page, black flowing letters appearing marvelously similar to the hand that had written the orders in the first place. "Very ungentlemanly."

Francis peered over the broad shoulder, gently caressing the lines of the original as they instructed various sections of the fleet to block Amsterdam's famous harbor, and comparing handwriting in the orange light. "You have talent. But slant your 't's a little to the left. And my next flourish for Captain Kirkland—Is it too soon to bring up his frightful eyebrows?"

"Probably, if I am to get frightful properly slanty. We still need half a page."

"True, and it would take so much more than half a page to encompass that pair of facial features. Try this: 'I hope that you enjoy the sleepless nights that I foresee in your future. Next time, you would do well to watch your bags when you travel by mail coach with men you know to be untrustworthy. Just a piece of advice from your old friend. I suppose the question is whether you notice the deception before, or after we part company in Ghent. I look forward to your cursing, but would rather be out of your charming company sooner than later. Your dearest' no, make that: 'Your ever admiring, Francis Bonnefoy.'"

"Loyal citizen of the French Republic?'" Peeters' voice was droll, as his hands kept their marvelous swirls through the 's' in 'foresee.'

Francis merely smirked. "Now, now, let's not confuse him with too many lies," an eyebrow jumped on his new found compatriot, but the letters remained smooth and studied as ever. Francis could only wonder—where had this man learned such deceit and control? "So, indulge me."

"Why should I?"

"I did just give the man we are raking over hot coals reason to believe that your sister's taste in guests is not to be blamed for his soon-to-be loss of prestige."

"True. I am—grateful."

"Grateful enough to tell me where these clever arts you are employing come from?"

"That is your only price?"

"Well, I might hold out for your first name as well, Monsieur, but if that seems too forward, I will be pleased enough to know your experience with forgery."

Peeters pulled one of the candles from the edge of the desk, and placed the shallow melting bowl and tripod over its flame. With easy precision he folded the two sheets of paper, lining them up once more with the original document. Such a small note contained the fate of a country, Francis marveled, seeing paper disappear beneath measuring fingers. Peeters reached out for the sealing wax, pausing slightly. "Josef."

"Mm? Ah, yes. You must forgive me for not remembering our introduction. I was rather engaged in deflecting Captain Kirkland and Herr Edelstein's searching questions."

"You are forgiven—if you would answer my question."

Francis waited impatiently, leaning over the desk, trying to catch the eye of his interlocutor. "You have not answered _all_ of my questions, yet, sir."

Josef watched the wax warm itself in the small pan. "If you so desire. As to my, did you call it 'education?' This is a useful skill for any man who needs proper shipping manifests or passports at any moment to have. In this day and age we are judged on who has the right papers, are we not?"

Francis chose to accept this without smirking. Such calm and equanimity in the face of probing, practically greedy interest. From the look of the bedroom, nearly bare, except for the desk, which was a mass of papers, mostly business, and some probably the products of a mind that considered counterfeiting a wax seal in the wee hours of the morning a simple task, Josef Peeters was not a man of creature comforts.

And yet, candles were always on hand. The pipe on the windowsill appeared to be possessed of the deep golden luster of regularly exercised meerschaum. Between bed and window was another eccentricity: a chronometer was on display. Francis suspected that in the light of day, it and the pipe would be the objects most marked by loving hands and reverent usage. The bed itself Francis appreciated for a long, thoughtful minute. That mattress spoke of angelic sleep, and the sheets were good linen but plain. So, expensive taste warred with an instinct toward a lack of material possessions. Radical politics warred with conservative notions of family honor. So many little contrasts—but were any of them real, and how much, exactly did they tell of Josef Peeters' nature?

"Now," Peeters tipped the small pan over the new document, those silver tools at the ready. "If you are no loyal servant of the Republic, what are you a loyal servant of?"

Francis watched the careful shepherding of wax with the carver's tools. "Ah, but that would be telling. Let us just say that loyalty is not among my more admired qualities. I am French. I do not need to be loyal. Just clever enough to see the direction of the wind."

"I can appreciate self interest."

"Oh?" Francis looked around the room once again.

Shadows and night swallowed too much of the man's intimate spaces to guess much personality from them. Indeed, Francis had probably given away more in that letter than Josef in the very studious invitation to his room. How many little secrets and piece of information were being stored in that clever mind? How much was he doling out?

The real question, of course, was if Francis was going to win this. He had Josef Peeters where he wanted. He had Arthur Kirkland where he wanted. He even had Veronique Peeters in a position where she would probably invite him to return.

Yet, he suspected that he was losing.

Padding to the door, he spared a glance for his compatriot. "I think I would like to check on your guests. Caution must rule the day."

Peeters, still engaged with a rapidly cooling medium simply waved his hand, and Francis slipped into the dark once more. This section of the house was reserved for family, and yes, the door nearest to Josef's suggested a master bedroom. The room of Mistress Veronique, and from the lack of sound she was fast asleep. Taking a careful turn past the stairs, Francis saw light pooling from under the first guest room door. Well, well. The Swede and his manservant had the lights out to his knowledge, and if he was correct in remembering the ways in which the rooms were organized in this twisting house, this was Herr Edelstein's domain. And he had visitors.

Careful of the floor boards, Francis inched along, entirely glad that the Elder Beilschmidt had no real concept of subtlety. He was not even bothering to lower his voice. "I'm not a part of your little games—Empires, and I suppose Republics now, will do as they have always done, and that doesn't threaten my interests. Yet."

"Listen, you little twit," Francis raised an eyebrow to hear Kirkland's frustrated growl, "try to think past your own pecuniary interests for one moment. What if this experiment of theirs succeeds?"

"It won't," Gilbert laughed with arrogant assurance. "And if it does, then that simply says that our rulers need to rethink the will of the people, doesn't it? I'm just a simple businessman—,"

"Hah!"

"A businessman with broad interests, then. Are your satisfied with such honesty, Arthur? My point is that I am not part of your little spy games, and whatever private war _you_ have declared on France. Make it _worth_ my while—,"

"It's worth mine, Gilbert," Edelstien dropped his worth into the conversation like a rock. "Eva thinks—,"

"Oh yes, the princely little girl, still in braids? What does some backwater little numbskull know about politic—,"

"Evidently more than you."

"Don't be sore, Arthur. Maybe if you were being more honest about the provenance of this little message that you two are so worried about, I would consider it. But this cloak and dagger stuff—too Florentine for my simple blood—,"

"In comparison to that open and honest business of yours in Grodno? Roderich has told me all about _that_," Arthur snarled, causing a minor scuffle, and Francis to smirk with evil intent, before a panting Arthur restored order. "Thank you, Roderich. Touch a painful point, did I Herr Beilschmidt? I would have thought after the Polish business you of all people would be eager to throw in your lot against a radical Empire."

"Huh. Let's just say, I don't start caring about philosophical differences on governance until we get down to the physical effects of the policy. And so far France is collapsing in on itself. Let them sort themselves out—no one can go to war if they don't have supply lines."

"Have you considered the precedent they're setting!"

"Well, Roddy, unlike you, I don't have a vested bloodline interested in keeping its most far flung members alive. I'm the dirty little tradesboy, remember? Loyalty to my king is my worry, and who cares about French precedent? The message of France is to reform, or be reformed. I don't see any reason to get caught up in your mess."

"If you take the letter with you—,"

"I have reason to believe that Bonnefoy will follow me to Bruges. You're leaving here in the morning, while I am lasting out the week. Gilbert, it would be better if you took the damned thing."

"I was leaving to head to _Amsterdam_, not go further west," Gilbert protested. "Business is business, and runs on a tight schedule."

Francis decided that he had heard enough. If the letter really was going to leave tomorrow, then Josef needed to know, and if Gilbert was not going to be convinced, they would have a finished product waiting for Arthur, in any case.

His travel back to the quarters occupied by the Peeters bother was slower than his sneaking away. For one thing, he was now conscious of all the area rugs that could potentially trip or foul his progress, and for another, floor boards became far more treacherous without a mindful guard on them. Slipping back into the warm glow of candles, Francis found Josef waiting with a relaxed smugness. The cream of two sets of now sealed letters flashed between his fingers, as he displayed one after the other.

Francis grinned, walking to the bed, and taking a presumptuous seat. His gin widened as he noticed a tell-tale twitch in Josef's jaw, and the narrowing of eyes. "Marvelous. However, our plans for the evening might have to be especially well laid. The Captain, not entirely trusting me in the same house as his treasured instructions, has called a council of war."

The annoyance vanished from Josef Peeter's sharp face, to be replaced with a brooding thoughtfulness. "That would be Herr Edelstein," he commented at last. "He is a valued—friend of Metterninch."

Unsurprised, Francis waved a careless hand. "I had noticed a rather monarchist leaning over the last few days. I was leading him on, but he does have such an enthusiasm for the way things are done _properly_, doesn't he? However, the other member of that war council was Beilschmidt the Elder."

Peeters cocked an eyebrow. "Does that concern you?"

Francis studied the long frame on his companion. "In a way, it does. Not that the charming man can do anything to upset this rather nasty surprise that the English will have to face. As long as we wait for the assembled party to retire, and place your masterful work between the books where it belongs tonight, rather than in the early morning, nothing will have changed. However—However, it concerns me that Captain Kirkland's orders mean enough to him that he would entrust them to a third party. I am perplexed by his sudden change in action."

"I do not see why you are so surprised. It is sensible to use a neutral intermediary, and get this," he flourished the original note the light catching the seal long enough for Francis to see that the wax had not taken to reheating and molding as well as one might have hoped, "out of reach of troublesome French hands. The sooner, the better."

"Arthur Kirkland is not a creature of sense, my dear Josef. He is convinced of his own power, and does not believe that any can best him—despite my past successes in curtailing his exploits. Why turn to Monsieur Beilschmidt? Why now?"

Josef rose, blowing out one candle before stretching. "Beilschmidt is rich in a minor way. The family runs an arms trade between Sweden, Russia, and numerous kingdoms along the Baltic coast with supplies out of the provinces. If war is coming—,"

"And it is."

"—then what ally would you want, but one with goods predisposed towards arming an army?" Francis watched in dawning wonder as the small letters were carefully placed in a cubbyhole, and Peeters walked over to the chronometer. "I would only assume that Captain Kirkland has other aims than handing over an instructional letter. He has probably been told to contact various merchant houses to secure trade _against_ your country, if he can't secure it for his. That would explain why he is spending so much time in Ghent while my sister's contact with the Djurgården ship yard is visiting. This is not about your private game—or even the fate of a free country that they want to use as a bargaining chip. This is positioning while the diplomats despair of beheading on your precious guillotine."

The cravat came unloosed from Peeters' neck, but his hands shook just enough, moving with just enough force, that Francis could read their intent. Even in candle light. "It really does irk you that they intend to invade their allies, doesn't it?"

The arresting eyes glittered, before Josef blocked the view of the single candle left alight, turning himself into a shadowed monolith. "I have business interests across the border. Invasion from any side would most likely make me a poorer man." Francis rose, ready to sidle around his erstwhile ally. Josef's hand appeared on his shoulder, forestalling any swift exit. "Tell me, should I expect France to be as kind to her allies as England?"

"Oh, it depends," Francis tilted his head so that his mouth had access to a softly curving ear. "Do you think we wish to devour the world?"

It was not calculation that seized his chin, for all that the shuttered eyes tried to divine his secrets in the low light by the desk. The eyes were only a front, giving Francis the fleeting impression that he could be judged and measured. The hands holding him to the light however, spoke of irritation and stilled control—impatient. With Francis, with the politics, with the entire lack of certainty underpinning his little world. Perhaps.

Francis brought his own hands to the capturing digits, removing them from stubbled chin, but not entirely willing to let go. "Don't be coy, darling."

Pulling himself against Josef Peeters' chest, Francis stole his fist kiss from undecided lips. The next was snatched back by Peeters, surprisingly warm and insistent. Francis was almost surprised by the response, the way the man's hands tightened on his own, Josef's legs shifting to trap him. Quite a delicious trap, Francis decided, as the third kiss began, a hungry duel this time. Hands unclasped, only to seek advantage elsewhere, sliding up Francis' still coated arm and snaking around his waist. Francis took the invitation of the possessive mood, sliding a leg between Peeters' thighs, and slipping his nails up the cloth covered thigh. He felt positively wicked when Josef broke their kiss with an uncontrolled jerk, bringing the restrained hardness of their dicks to rub against each other.

This pleasing sensation only lasted for a moment. Josef's hands, interrupted in their quest to control the kisses, twitched Francis' coat down to his elbows, ensnaring his arms. Francis chuckled, deciding to find the point on Josef's neck where he would be reminded of this encounter for a week afterward, each time he did up his cravat in the morning. So confident, and Francis did not think that the man should have everything his own way. Not everything.

But Josef was dipping him back, returning kiss for kiss the marks on his skin, leading Francis to the soft bed. As Francis managed to wriggle out of his coat, he found long fingers ready to help him with waistcoat, and soon enough his hands had rid Josef of his trousers, and shirt. If the smokey taste of Peeters' mouth was not so intoxicating, or the long lines of his legs quite so enchanting, Francis would have laughed at the presumption of such efficiency.

Instead, he allowed himself to tumble on top of those neat sheets, cool cloth welcome against his back. For a moment Josef loomed—how very good he was at doing that—staring at Francis, taking his bare glory in with sweeps of his gaze. Francis licked his lips, wondering what Josef saw in the interplay between light and shadow. He shifted, smirking as the calculating eyes went immediately to the long stretch of his legs. "Admiring the lay of the land?"

The mattress sighed as Josef lowered himself to Fancis' level, his hand sliding up the outside curve of thigh, calloused fingers returning the favor of Francis' nails. "I am admiring a lot of things," he breathed into Francis' ear.

The charming Frenchman grinned, his arm stealing around Josef's neck, giving his fingers time to weave into the short hair at the back of his skull. How unfashionable, and yet so true to a man more at business than at pleasure. Francis gasped quietly as Josef's free hand found his cock. The dextrous fingers wrapped around the skin, promising more pressure even while a supple thumb stroked the skin around the tip.

The fingers in Josef's hair tightened, pulling in wicked mischief, as Francis grabbed that mouth once again to renew the kissing war. Josef was nearly helpless when Francis bit along his lips, clever hand losing rhythm, just as Francis relinquished his control over that mouth. Taking advantage of the easy distraction, Francis bucked into Josef's hand, pushing his thighs against the hard cock Peeters was sporting.

In revenge, Josef took away his hand, silencing complaint with rake of teeth against Francis' throat. The threat from teeth was soon followed by an apologetic lick of tongue. Francis' chuckle at the sudden gentleness resolved into a moan when he felt fingers slip inside him. He gasped when Josef replaced them, stretching him even further, each brush and thrust warming up to something deep and delicious. Francis favored his partner with nails scoring across his back, feeling none too guilty when Josef growled false threats of accounting. He laughed, even, feeling his partner rise within him, slamming himself even deeper into Francis, his clever hand returning to the ministrations on Francis' dick.

Shuddering, Francis came over Jos' palm, and felt a respondent thrust to the tightening of his body. At ease, feeling the man so deeply inside him, Francis stole a demanding kiss from Josef one last time, enjoying smoke and strength.

For a while they lay together, bodies cooling in the night breeze coming in the open window. Josef rolled away at last, sitting up. "These sheets are going to be a nightmare to clean."

Francis, who had been tracking the movement lazily allowed himself to feel put out. "That's all you can think about? The sheets?"

Wet fingers lingering on Francis' hip told a different story. Josef chuckled, leaning in to share a secret. "And the fact that I need to be cleaned up and dressed if I want to plant the note where it belongs."

"You are incorrigible," Francis took the opportunity to watch the shift of light along the skin of Josef's throat.

Orange turned one circular wound and appalling shade of brown, and Francis smirked to know that this rash encounter would not be forgotten easily. How odd that the physical barriers were down with the clothes. Josef had struck him as the sort not to let go of any defense. Instead, he was almost joking. As the man rose to the pitcher of water set aside for the washbasin, Francis let his eyes linger on the smooth muscles of his back.

Ignoring the sounds of splashing, Francis stretched, wanting to fall asleep. But a victory half consummated was no victory at all. He sighed mightily, and then rose as well, leaving the embrace of the sheets. "You know where Arthur was storing his insidious little message?"

Josef looked over his shoulder, and nodded briefly, before searching the floor for his dark trousers. "Even if Veronique had not been giggling over his unashamed enthusiasm for that Shakespeare collection we have been trying to rid our library of for ages, I did have the pleasure of watching you sneak to the bookcase in question. I have a good memory for placement."

"Mmm," Francis tested his walking, and found an immediate reminder, if not as obvious to the public eye as the one he had given Josef, of the last few minutes. In a civilized world, he reflected, intrigue and sheet washing would be left to the morning's light, and he could have a luxurious night in a warm bed. Ah, but what was satisfaction to the siren call of efficiency?

Josef was already carefully folding cravat and waistcoat, as Francis found his own long trousers had managed to crawl slightly under the bed, even though his boots had remained where they had been left. He rose from the floor, clothing assured, to find Josef studying him, the shadows and planes of his face set to opaque thought once more. On noticing that he was observed, the eyebrow rose interrogatively, as though Francis' host dared Francis to conjure his ruminations. However, the calculating smile returned, just before Josef headed for the desk, and retrieved their forgery, and the original.

"I assume you will have decided your next course of action by the time I am done," he predicted, leaning over, and blowing the candle out.

Francis scowled slightly, as he was left in the dark, and by the sounds of the closing door, entirely alone.

* * *

><p>Josef Peeters did not fear much in life. Fear was not a profitable emotion, and most men became too entangled in worry about the opinion of the world. Unfortunately, he reflected, there was at least one piece of the world whose good opinion he did desire, and possibly even feared her disapprobation.<p>

The stony expression on Verionique's face was making him wish that their little brother was in the country to stand between him and the wrath he was encouraging yet again.

"Let me understand this," Veronique began, her voice low, and her eyes tracking Manon's disappearance with the breakfast dishes, rather than her brother's posture. As the door swung shut behind her apron stings, Veronqiue allowed herself to verbalize the plan her brother had concocted: "One of my guests—a man I had believed was making an expedient use of his charm to exit Paris during this violent time—stole the documents that I was holding in safe keeping for our family friend. And in those documents he discovered a plot that would undoubtedly bring ruin to a neighboring country. And that he intends to publish them."

"Publishing such a letter would not stop the orders from existing," Josef replied, touching the original of the set.

"Humiliating Captain Kirkland would, you think?" Veronique tried to tuck an errant curl back into the sweep of her hair band, a clear sign of her irritation.

"Holding him to ransom would," Josef nodded, pushing the second letter forward. "If you understand my meaning."

Veronique tightened her lips, but thankfully Manon's knock at the door withheld her comments. "Yes?"

Josef moved calculatingly behind the breakfast table, ready to stand as support to his sister's right. The house maid peeked round the door, and then noting the composure of her employer stepped boldly into the room. "Captain Kirkland wishes to see you madam. He says that it is most urgent."

"I would assume so," Veronique delicately lifted both letters, glancing at the seals. "Send him in."

The maid nodded and retreated, only to have the door smacked open by and angry palm as Arthur Kirkland strode into the open dinning room. "Miss Peeters, I would like to know why the correspondence that I entrusted to your care is missing from what you assured me was the most unremarked spot in the house?"

Veronique drew herself up marvelously. Josef almost felt sorry for Kirkland, as he saw the flashing in his sister's eyes. That expression never boded well. The velvet purr of her voice boded even worse news. "Sir, when one invites men of distinction into their home, one usually expects a degree of honesty and legality in their actions. Apparently, last night this was not the case. Monsieur Bonnefoy spent his time purloining this letter from my library," she flashed the offending document, trusting to her brother's indication of which was the original. "And copying it. Unfortunately for him, my brother caught him in the act when he was returning the missive to its proper spot, supposedly so that you would be none the wiser."

Arthur's eyes widened, and he took an involuntary step back. "I assume that you will be asking him to leave. I thank you for—,"

"Do not thank me just yet. Monsieur Bonnefoy made some very startling accusations about how you, too, have abused my hospitality. Namely the contents of this letter that he stole seem to detail exact orders for an invasion of the Seventeen Provinces. I believe your good friend Herr Edelstein would be most unhappy to see such invasion plans—let alone the presses."

"I cannot—,"

"I am in possession of both the original, and Monsieur Bonnefoy's copy. You will not plague my house with war or scandal, sir. These are most ill-advised orders, indeed."

"But they are my orders, madam," Arthur Kirkland drew himself upright, rallying, now that the blows had seemingly passed. Josef allowed himself to be impressed by the swift recovery, especially in the face of his sister's humorless smile.

"And, should you choose to demand the return of the original, I will publish the copy before your version can reach Bruges. The world will know what kind of ally England is. Somehow, I doubt that your superiors in the Admiralty would wish that to leak."

"I—,"

"I would also remind you that in three days time the ambassador from the Free Netherlands is coming to dine with us, as is his wont when my brother is in the county. It would be my duty as a hostess to pass along any word I had that he might find enlightening."

Arthur's jaw muscles worked to no effect for several moments. "You would destroy an old alliance," he shot Josef a glare as the man snorted in dark amusement.

"I would request that you burn your orders, and tell your superior that this particular plan will not be feasible," Veronique drew his angry attention back.

Arthur cleared his throat, and shuffled for a moment, gazing at the fire gently warming the dining room from behind a screen. "Do you—Miss Peeters, has it crossed your mind what the world will be like should this radical Republican nonsense out of France win?"

"It crossed my mind what the world would be like if the English crown won by such means," Veronique held out the letter. "Now, sir, to Bruges, or the fire?"

"Bonnefoy's copy?"

"That stays with me," Josef reached around, and took the second letter from his sister. "For insurance, you understand."

Arthur's mouth became an awful smirk. "You don't trust me, Mr. Peeters?"

Josef and Veronique exchanged glances, but kept a quiet single front. Arthur bowed theatrically, his deep green eyes darting between the two, before he turned to the fire. All three quietly watched the letter fall, catch, and burn.

"I will take my leave, then," Captain Kirkland replied at last. "It is a shame that I will not be allowed to enjoy dinner in your house one last time, Miss Peeters."

"A shame," Veronique agreed. "Perhaps at another juncture. Our families have always been close."

"Perhaps a little too close," Arthur's eyes lingered on Josef, daring, challenging him to give way, and confess his role in the whole scheme. "We must see what the future holds for all of us."

As Arthur left, Veronique allowed her posture to slump. She turned to her brother, shaking her head. "That was too close, and cost us a lot."

"Nothing that we could not afford," Josef replied, placing his copy of the letter in his pocket.

Veronique just frowned. "Really? You'll miss little Matthew's visits, and trading tobacco with the elder Kirkland. I know you will."

Josef shrugged. "The company that Brian Kirkland offers can just as easily be found in any public house, and I have never really been one for children."

"Liar."

The elder brother just inclined his head. "I should probably take my leave, too. I seem to be very good at disgracing our family name."

"Or at least begriming it," Veronique agreed. "But you get a few days grace. Family always deserves special consideration."

"They will be expecting me in Antwerp on Thursday, in any case," Josef replied, sidling towards the door that lead to the kitchen passage, and conveniently the stairway closest to his room. It was the least he could do for the many second chances Veronique ceaselessly extended.

Unfortunately he chose exactly the wrong door to use. As he cut off access to the dining room, and let gloom swallow this windowless passage, he found Francis Bonnefoy leaning casually opposite the door, arms crossed, eyes a glimmer. "So, I have been cheated, and rather masterfully, at a game I almost always win," his French tongue dripped with amused venom, and for a moment Josef considered backing up, and returning to Veronique's company. Bonnefoy armed with the knowledge that Josef was not a fellow ally almost certainly would be dangerous. "It does explain why you were so much more concerned with efficiency instead of passion."

Instead, Josef stood his ground, wondering where the gain would be in this conversation, possibly the only one they would ever engage in honestly. "Your plan would not have accomplished what I wanted."

"And yours does?" Bonnefoy prowled closer.

"It brings my goals closer to fruition than England gaining the Seventeen Provinces, and France, naturally, claiming the Austrian Netherlands as a counter move," Josef glared down at the erstwhile ally. "I intend to see my country in the hands of the people who have lived in it. Perhaps you can understand."

"Such a silly loyalty?" Francis grinned, "I am charmed that you are still trying to position yourself as my personal, if not political, ally."

"You would make a dangerous enemy. Arthur Kirkland is proof of that," Josef replied, sure now that honesty today would win him the most. After today, well, it was unlikely that they would meet again until France attempted invasion.

Francis seemed to have made the same assessment, because he closed his eyes before turning away. "I will put in a good word for you as a revolutionary minded young man when our little experiment with democracy spreads to this marvelous corner of the world. Next time you wish to play a game with me, however, we will be playing my way."

Josef smirked, brushing past Francis as he headed for the stairs. "I thought that we already were."

"Oh, hardly darling. The stakes weren't high enough," Francis laughed after him. "And I did not win."

* * *

><p>Thank you very much for reading. I am looking for any suggestions as to making the ending stronger.<p>

~ MF


End file.
